Lover Unveiled, page 31
He was still standing where he’d planted his boots when a male materialized in front of him.
The Reverend was who he had been at the fight, an imposing figure in a full-length fur, his cropped Mohawk and amethyst eyes not the kind of thing you saw every night. Given the elegant bulk of that mink, it was not immediately apparent whether there were weapons under the duster, but a strange sense told Sahvage that the conventional stuff you could buy at your local click-click, bang-bang shop wasn’t going to be necessary for the guy’s protection.
There was something off about him.
And the fact that he was involved with the Book seemed right.
“Fancy hearing from you,” the Reverend drawled. Then he frowned. “This isn’t about the fight money, is it.”
“No.”
“How’s your female?”
“She’s not mine.” Sahvage ignored the chuckle. “But I need to find that Book she’s looking for.”
“Valentine’s Day isn’t for another ten months, and as romantic intentions go, you might have just as good a result with chocolates, only without the fucking hassle—”
“Where can I find it. And don’t tell me you didn’t lie to her. You know a helluva lot more than you’re saying.”
Abruptly, the jokey-jokey shit left the chat.
“I am under no obligation to humor your drama.” The Reverend smiled coldly, flashing long fangs. “And you’re not trying to get it for her, are you. No, no, you’ve got other plans for the Book.”
“Of course it’s for her.”
A dark eyebrow lifted. “You’re either lying to me or lying to yourself.”
On his side of the conversation, Sahvage was busy blocking every thought he had—and it was clearly not working. Which he took to mean he was definitely talking to the right male.
With a shrug, he said, “I’m just helping for a friend.”
“Yeah, ’cuz you’re the kind of male who does shit like that.” The Reverend put his hand in his pocket. Then grew still. “You’re not going to tell me to keep my palms in full view?”
“No.”
“So trusting. Another surprise. We keep this up and you’re going to tell me you’re turning into a pacifist next.”
“I don’t trust you at all. But you can’t hurt me.”
Those amethyst eyes narrowed. “That, my friend, is where you’re wrong.”
“No one can hurt me,” Sahvage countered grimly.
“You know”—the Reverend took his hand back out—“I’ve heard of toxic narcissism before, but you’re taking the cake. Here’s your money.”
“Keep it and tell me what you know about the Book.”
“No offense, this is couch change to me. So you’re not doing me any favors.”
“Keep it anyway. And tell me what you know.”
The Reverend disappeared the cash again. Then he just stared at Sahvage. “Where’s your lost family, fighter.”
“What?”
“I have this cute little knack for knowing what people hide.” He tapped the side of his head. “Such a handy thing out in the world, really. And you lost your people, your family, a long time ago, didn’t you.”
“I didn’t lose anybody, and I just want the Book.”
There was a long period of silence. Then the Reverend switched his cane from one hand to another. “As it turns out, I have someone you’re going to want to speak to. I don’t know where the fucking thing is, but a friend of mine does. You’ll want to ask him. He’s an absolute angel.”
“Fine. Tell me when and where.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Make it quick.”
“You are hardly in a position to make demands.”
Sahvage slowly shook his head. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
The Reverend open his mouth like he was going to make a snide comment. But the male didn’t follow through on the impulse.
As a calculating look came into those eyes, he smiled a little. “Fascinating.” Then he nodded with respect. “And I do believe you are right. I don’t know who I’m dealing with—but neither do you, fighter. You’ll be hearing from me.”
The Reverend bowed. And then he was off, disappearing into the night.
Left on his little lonesome, Sahvage went back to staring over the slow-moving water. The fact that he didn’t know the river’s name was a testament to how many places he had been over the last couple of centuries. From wandering the Old Country’s various nation-states to coming to the New World fifty years ago and traveling all around the South and the Midwest, the globe was a blur to him. Then again, he’d never used maps. Maps were for people with destinations. The sole direction he took was no daylight and veins only when he absolutely needed them.
Otherwise, he roamed in search of a moving target.
No, that was actually no longer true. He had come to this side of the big pond because he had finally given up on finding his cousin. Just as he had predicted the night he resealed his coffin full of oat flour, his “death” had freed him of any ties, and he had gone to ground, following up on leads, gossip, and tenuous stories of magic in hopes of finding Rahvyn.
Not one single trace. She must have died somewhere along the line—and now he was here, an ocean away. But no longer purposeless.
The Reverend was right. He wasn’t going after the Book for Mae.
He was going to find it and destroy the goddamn thing before she could ruin her brother’s life.
And her own.
Balz limped around in circles outside one of the training center’s operating rooms. There were a lot of people with him: Xcor and the rest of the Band of Bastards, the Brotherhood, the other fighters in the house. On the far side of the closed door, Syphon was being treated for God only knew what.
On that note, Balz pulled up the sleeve of the flannel shirt he’d changed into after his own medical exam. The welt on his forearm was calming down, the raised flesh less angry, less swollen. There were a lot of the damn things, mostly on his chest and arms. Maybe twenty percent of his entire body.
Syphon was at more like eighty percent.
If the male died, it was all Balz’s fault.
Back at that psychic’s, Manny had arrived with his mobile surgical unit a mere eight minutes after the call-in for help, and Xcor and several of the Brothers had loaded Syphon into the treatment bay. Balz had refused any medical attention at that point, and insisted on riding in to offer protection.
Not that he had been much use. He’d been in killer pain.
But self-blame was a better analgesic than morphine, go figure.
In recounting the attack, he’d done what he could to fill the docs and the other fighters in on what had happened. But he’d given them all an edited version—although he’d been totally up front about the shadow. Again, it had been a goddamn shame that he hadn’t had water from the Scribe Virgin’s fountain in those bullets—
“There’s a new evil in town,” Butch muttered. “Maybe the shadows are something of hers.”
As a cold rush of awareness fell on Balz’s head, he pivoted around and faced the Brother. Butch O’Neal was a sharp dresser when he was off the clock, a great fighter when he was on it, and wicked handy—as he would have said—with a potato launcher. He’d also been up close and in person with—
“Hers?” Balz heard himself say.
“You remember what happened with the Omega. The woman—or yeah, whatever the fuck she is.”
“Oh, right.” Balz cleared his throat. Twice. “Right. Right, sure.”
His brain, his awareness, was like a Victorian stereoscope, where two flat photographs of the same thing were merged and became a three-dimensional image.
He felt like he couldn’t breathe. “Just curious. What did she look like?”
Butch shook his head as he glanced at his roommate, V, and then looked back over. “You mean, did I see her driver’s license?” Then he frowned. “Wait, you’re serious. What she looked like?”
“Yeah.” Balz shrugged and tried to appear casual. “I mean, if she’s out there on the streets of Caldwell, with some kind of shadow army, shouldn’t all of us have an idea of what she looks like?”
Butch shrugged and then nodded. “Good point. Ah, well . . . she’s pretty much the most beautiful brunette you’ve ever seen. Until you look her in the eye. And then . . . she’s horror and destruction and disease . . .” Butch made the sign of the cross over his heavy chest. “She is as enticing as poison in a rosebud.”
Conversation bubbled up at that point, the Brothers who had seen her chiming in. But it wasn’t like Balz needed any more descriptors—the truth was . . . he’d known the answer before he’d asked the question.
To make it like there was nothing wrong, he hung out for a little longer, and then he broke away, making sure he told Xcor he’d be right back. The locker room for males was next door, and as he stumbled inside, he went past the lineup of lockers to the row of sinks by the shower stalls. Running some water in one of the basins, he splashed his face and scrubbed the moisture off with some buff-colored paper towels from a dispenser.
Dropping his hands, he stared at himself in the mirror—
Don’t worry, I forgive you, lover boy.
As the female voice echoed through his head, he wheeled around. “I’m not yours for the taking,” he said to the shower stalls.
How ’bout we bet on that?
The locker room door opened, and he went for the gun he’d loaded—
Butch walked in, and the Brother’s stride was as casual as Balz had tried to make his own when he had left. That face, though, was not relaxed in the slightest, and those hazel eyes were knowing. You could tell the guy had been a cop in his earlier life as a human.
“Tell me where you’ve seen her.”
Good thing that as a thief, Balz was an accomplished liar. The truth, after all, was only one more safe to break into and steal from. You just did it with words instead of grabby hands.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“Don’t bullshit me.” Butch crossed his arms over his chest, his leather fighting jacket creaking. “It’s not going to help either one of us. When did you see her and what did she do to you.”
With a curse, Balz thought about that pause, that moment, when he’d been stuck in between saving his cousin and . . . whatever she was.
There shouldn’t have been any hesitation at all. And that’s what was terrifying him now.
“Tonight.” He took a deep breath. “Tonight at that psychic’s. And before that, during the day in my bedroom. She came to visit me and I thought I was dreaming, but she somehow scratched my back.”
Butch took a deep breath, as if he were relieved. “Good.”
“I’m sorry?” Balz said with a frown.
“I just, look, I know you’re a big boy and you can take care of yourself. I also know you would never lie about something like that.”
“Of course I wouldn’t.”
“I was just worried that you’d seen her. I’m glad you didn’t.”
“What?” Balz shook his head because clearly his ears weren’t working. “I just told you I did. That she was with me—”
“We can’t be too careful, you know. I feel like she’s kind of like an infection. Once she gets in you, she takes over until you die.” Butch clapped Balz on the shoulder. “Sorry that I was paranoid—and really glad she hasn’t crossed your path.”
Balz stared after the Brother in total confusion. When Butch got to the door, the fighter glanced over his shoulder and smiled.
“But hey, we get our hands on that Book and we’ve got all kinds of demon-icillin.”
“What?” Balz asked.
“Word has it that Book can be used for lots of fun things. Including getting rid of pesky trespassers—and I ain’t talking about your uncle Norman over the Christmas holiday.”
As the Brother ducked out of the locker room, Balz mumbled, “I don’t have an uncle Norman.”
He sure as shit had a trespasser, however, and he had a feeling she was working through him in ways he wasn’t aware of.
This realization would have flat-out terrified him.
If he hadn’t already been shitting bricks.
• • •
Back at the cottage, Sahvage entered through the second-story bedroom window, and as he came to the head of the stairs, he called down for Tallah.
He did the same on the first floor.
At the cellar door, he leaned in. Then went down. The old female’s room was open, and the light from the hall shone inside. There was a lot of pink silk with flowers, and furniture that he had seen in what the humans called France, back when he’d been traveling the Old Country. Over on a chaise lounge, Tallah was fast asleep. She had dressed formally once again, her gown a faded teal, her silver fall of hair loose and tangling in the seed pearls that had been stitched on the bodice.
Beside her was a tray with a cup of tea, some half-eaten toast, and a pot of jam.
The life span of vampires was very different from that of humans, and not just from a longevity point of view. Unlike that other species, vampires looked pretty damn good for their entire lives, up until their last decade or so. At that point, the aging process slammed into the body and the mind, and the degeneration of everything occurred on a fast-rate escalation that led right into the grave.
Tallah was not far from a headstone—
“Sahvage?” the female mumbled as she lifted her head. “Is that you?”
“I’m sorry I woke you. I was just checking on you.”
“Oh, that is so kind. Where’s Mae?”
“She’s on her way back.” He took a deep breath. “You haven’t eaten much.”
“I was not very hungry. That stew last night was so filling.”
“You just rest. You look tired.”
“I am.”
As he went to turn away, Tallah said, “She’s lucky to have you.”
With a noncommittal sound, he headed back upstairs and took a seat at the kitchen table. Checking his phone, he frowned at the time and texted Mae. And then he waited for a response. Which would be coming at any second. He was quite sure. She’d probably taken her car.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Yeah, that was it. Mae was driving back with her car and it would take her—he glanced at the time on his home screen again—probably another ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.
As the quiet in the cottage seeped into him, he found the past coming back one last time. Good thing. He’d lost his patience with his memories . . . then again, that had been true at the very moment they had been made.
• • •
Tap. Tap. Tap . . .
The plaintive sound led him unto the broad staircase that ascended to the highest level of the castle. As he followed, a dog upon a scent, he was aware that the volume did not change. Though he instinctively knew he was closing in on the destination, the tapping did not become louder. It was as if the sound was in the very walls of stone, in the floor, in the ceiling.
Or perhaps no.
It might well be inside of him.
His journey ended in front of a stout door, the heavy planks reinforced with iron bars. And on either side, silk flags with golden trim were mounted upon proud poles.
He pictured Zxysis, impaled in the rectum—
Tap. Tap. Tap . . . tap.
As if its purpose had been served, the sound evaporated. And the door opened with a creaking, though he neither willed it so nor placed his hand upon its latch.
The master’s bedchamber was revealed, a blast of fresh air rushing forth as if it were anxious to depart the luxurious confines. Then again, all was not well.
In the flickering light of agitated candle flames, a scene of violence had even Sahvage closing his eyes.
Rahvyn’s simple underdress, the one that she had worn many times before, was torn to shreds and stained with blood, parts of it here . . . there . . . on the bedding platform. And beneath a canopy marked with the silks of the bloodline, the smell of blood and sex was at its strongest, even with the open window.
There she had been taken in violence.
“Dearest Virgin Scribe.”
But that was not all. There . . . in the corner . . . there was a bundle of leather, pale, unfinished leather . . .
Zxysis’s skin.
Sahvage drew his dagger palm down his face. Though he had never been a spiritual male, one caught up in prayers or the promised consolation of the Fade, he could not help but utter the mahmen of the race’s name o’er and o’er again—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Wheeling around, he frowned. The sound was coming from a trestle table by the hearth, and as he approached, he saw that a book lay open beside a black candle, an earthen dish, a dagger, and some herbs. As he breathed in, he caught a scent that was familiar.
His robing.
Lifting the front of the black fall that covered him, he sniffed. Yes, that was what had been pressed onto him—and within the bouquet . . . Rahvyn’s blood.
He looked at the ancient tome. There were lines of ink upon its parchment, the rusty brown color suggesting that blood had been in the quill that had stroked o’er the pages. The letters and symbols, however . . . were unlike any he had e’er seen before. However, he had a guess as to the content.
A spell, for surely these ingredients were inexplicable for any other purpose.
And Rahvyn’s vein had been opened.
He thought of the warnings carved on the outside of his coffin. It was not a difficult conclusion that some kind of containing spell had been wrought upon him, although obviously Zxysis hadnae been successful in the attempt.
Turning the cover over to close, Sahvage grimaced. He did not care for the feel of handling any part of the book. And as for what it was bound in? The ugly leather was riddled with cracks and fissures, as if it were aged beyond centuries. There was also a smell, like curdled milk or decaying flesh.
He dropped his hold and rubbed his palm upon his hip. Even after a vigorous scrub, he felt as though something was retained on his fingers, his palm—
The cover flipped back open of its own volition, the pages ruffling in a rush, sure as if ghosted hands were skimming through them. Sahvage backed away, but stopped as the book came to a rest in a different place than had been exposed previously.
The Reverend was who he had been at the fight, an imposing figure in a full-length fur, his cropped Mohawk and amethyst eyes not the kind of thing you saw every night. Given the elegant bulk of that mink, it was not immediately apparent whether there were weapons under the duster, but a strange sense told Sahvage that the conventional stuff you could buy at your local click-click, bang-bang shop wasn’t going to be necessary for the guy’s protection.
There was something off about him.
And the fact that he was involved with the Book seemed right.
“Fancy hearing from you,” the Reverend drawled. Then he frowned. “This isn’t about the fight money, is it.”
“No.”
“How’s your female?”
“She’s not mine.” Sahvage ignored the chuckle. “But I need to find that Book she’s looking for.”
“Valentine’s Day isn’t for another ten months, and as romantic intentions go, you might have just as good a result with chocolates, only without the fucking hassle—”
“Where can I find it. And don’t tell me you didn’t lie to her. You know a helluva lot more than you’re saying.”
Abruptly, the jokey-jokey shit left the chat.
“I am under no obligation to humor your drama.” The Reverend smiled coldly, flashing long fangs. “And you’re not trying to get it for her, are you. No, no, you’ve got other plans for the Book.”
“Of course it’s for her.”
A dark eyebrow lifted. “You’re either lying to me or lying to yourself.”
On his side of the conversation, Sahvage was busy blocking every thought he had—and it was clearly not working. Which he took to mean he was definitely talking to the right male.
With a shrug, he said, “I’m just helping for a friend.”
“Yeah, ’cuz you’re the kind of male who does shit like that.” The Reverend put his hand in his pocket. Then grew still. “You’re not going to tell me to keep my palms in full view?”
“No.”
“So trusting. Another surprise. We keep this up and you’re going to tell me you’re turning into a pacifist next.”
“I don’t trust you at all. But you can’t hurt me.”
Those amethyst eyes narrowed. “That, my friend, is where you’re wrong.”
“No one can hurt me,” Sahvage countered grimly.
“You know”—the Reverend took his hand back out—“I’ve heard of toxic narcissism before, but you’re taking the cake. Here’s your money.”
“Keep it and tell me what you know about the Book.”
“No offense, this is couch change to me. So you’re not doing me any favors.”
“Keep it anyway. And tell me what you know.”
The Reverend disappeared the cash again. Then he just stared at Sahvage. “Where’s your lost family, fighter.”
“What?”
“I have this cute little knack for knowing what people hide.” He tapped the side of his head. “Such a handy thing out in the world, really. And you lost your people, your family, a long time ago, didn’t you.”
“I didn’t lose anybody, and I just want the Book.”
There was a long period of silence. Then the Reverend switched his cane from one hand to another. “As it turns out, I have someone you’re going to want to speak to. I don’t know where the fucking thing is, but a friend of mine does. You’ll want to ask him. He’s an absolute angel.”
“Fine. Tell me when and where.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Make it quick.”
“You are hardly in a position to make demands.”
Sahvage slowly shook his head. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
The Reverend open his mouth like he was going to make a snide comment. But the male didn’t follow through on the impulse.
As a calculating look came into those eyes, he smiled a little. “Fascinating.” Then he nodded with respect. “And I do believe you are right. I don’t know who I’m dealing with—but neither do you, fighter. You’ll be hearing from me.”
The Reverend bowed. And then he was off, disappearing into the night.
Left on his little lonesome, Sahvage went back to staring over the slow-moving water. The fact that he didn’t know the river’s name was a testament to how many places he had been over the last couple of centuries. From wandering the Old Country’s various nation-states to coming to the New World fifty years ago and traveling all around the South and the Midwest, the globe was a blur to him. Then again, he’d never used maps. Maps were for people with destinations. The sole direction he took was no daylight and veins only when he absolutely needed them.
Otherwise, he roamed in search of a moving target.
No, that was actually no longer true. He had come to this side of the big pond because he had finally given up on finding his cousin. Just as he had predicted the night he resealed his coffin full of oat flour, his “death” had freed him of any ties, and he had gone to ground, following up on leads, gossip, and tenuous stories of magic in hopes of finding Rahvyn.
Not one single trace. She must have died somewhere along the line—and now he was here, an ocean away. But no longer purposeless.
The Reverend was right. He wasn’t going after the Book for Mae.
He was going to find it and destroy the goddamn thing before she could ruin her brother’s life.
And her own.
Balz limped around in circles outside one of the training center’s operating rooms. There were a lot of people with him: Xcor and the rest of the Band of Bastards, the Brotherhood, the other fighters in the house. On the far side of the closed door, Syphon was being treated for God only knew what.
On that note, Balz pulled up the sleeve of the flannel shirt he’d changed into after his own medical exam. The welt on his forearm was calming down, the raised flesh less angry, less swollen. There were a lot of the damn things, mostly on his chest and arms. Maybe twenty percent of his entire body.
Syphon was at more like eighty percent.
If the male died, it was all Balz’s fault.
Back at that psychic’s, Manny had arrived with his mobile surgical unit a mere eight minutes after the call-in for help, and Xcor and several of the Brothers had loaded Syphon into the treatment bay. Balz had refused any medical attention at that point, and insisted on riding in to offer protection.
Not that he had been much use. He’d been in killer pain.
But self-blame was a better analgesic than morphine, go figure.
In recounting the attack, he’d done what he could to fill the docs and the other fighters in on what had happened. But he’d given them all an edited version—although he’d been totally up front about the shadow. Again, it had been a goddamn shame that he hadn’t had water from the Scribe Virgin’s fountain in those bullets—
“There’s a new evil in town,” Butch muttered. “Maybe the shadows are something of hers.”
As a cold rush of awareness fell on Balz’s head, he pivoted around and faced the Brother. Butch O’Neal was a sharp dresser when he was off the clock, a great fighter when he was on it, and wicked handy—as he would have said—with a potato launcher. He’d also been up close and in person with—
“Hers?” Balz heard himself say.
“You remember what happened with the Omega. The woman—or yeah, whatever the fuck she is.”
“Oh, right.” Balz cleared his throat. Twice. “Right. Right, sure.”
His brain, his awareness, was like a Victorian stereoscope, where two flat photographs of the same thing were merged and became a three-dimensional image.
He felt like he couldn’t breathe. “Just curious. What did she look like?”
Butch shook his head as he glanced at his roommate, V, and then looked back over. “You mean, did I see her driver’s license?” Then he frowned. “Wait, you’re serious. What she looked like?”
“Yeah.” Balz shrugged and tried to appear casual. “I mean, if she’s out there on the streets of Caldwell, with some kind of shadow army, shouldn’t all of us have an idea of what she looks like?”
Butch shrugged and then nodded. “Good point. Ah, well . . . she’s pretty much the most beautiful brunette you’ve ever seen. Until you look her in the eye. And then . . . she’s horror and destruction and disease . . .” Butch made the sign of the cross over his heavy chest. “She is as enticing as poison in a rosebud.”
Conversation bubbled up at that point, the Brothers who had seen her chiming in. But it wasn’t like Balz needed any more descriptors—the truth was . . . he’d known the answer before he’d asked the question.
To make it like there was nothing wrong, he hung out for a little longer, and then he broke away, making sure he told Xcor he’d be right back. The locker room for males was next door, and as he stumbled inside, he went past the lineup of lockers to the row of sinks by the shower stalls. Running some water in one of the basins, he splashed his face and scrubbed the moisture off with some buff-colored paper towels from a dispenser.
Dropping his hands, he stared at himself in the mirror—
Don’t worry, I forgive you, lover boy.
As the female voice echoed through his head, he wheeled around. “I’m not yours for the taking,” he said to the shower stalls.
How ’bout we bet on that?
The locker room door opened, and he went for the gun he’d loaded—
Butch walked in, and the Brother’s stride was as casual as Balz had tried to make his own when he had left. That face, though, was not relaxed in the slightest, and those hazel eyes were knowing. You could tell the guy had been a cop in his earlier life as a human.
“Tell me where you’ve seen her.”
Good thing that as a thief, Balz was an accomplished liar. The truth, after all, was only one more safe to break into and steal from. You just did it with words instead of grabby hands.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“Don’t bullshit me.” Butch crossed his arms over his chest, his leather fighting jacket creaking. “It’s not going to help either one of us. When did you see her and what did she do to you.”
With a curse, Balz thought about that pause, that moment, when he’d been stuck in between saving his cousin and . . . whatever she was.
There shouldn’t have been any hesitation at all. And that’s what was terrifying him now.
“Tonight.” He took a deep breath. “Tonight at that psychic’s. And before that, during the day in my bedroom. She came to visit me and I thought I was dreaming, but she somehow scratched my back.”
Butch took a deep breath, as if he were relieved. “Good.”
“I’m sorry?” Balz said with a frown.
“I just, look, I know you’re a big boy and you can take care of yourself. I also know you would never lie about something like that.”
“Of course I wouldn’t.”
“I was just worried that you’d seen her. I’m glad you didn’t.”
“What?” Balz shook his head because clearly his ears weren’t working. “I just told you I did. That she was with me—”
“We can’t be too careful, you know. I feel like she’s kind of like an infection. Once she gets in you, she takes over until you die.” Butch clapped Balz on the shoulder. “Sorry that I was paranoid—and really glad she hasn’t crossed your path.”
Balz stared after the Brother in total confusion. When Butch got to the door, the fighter glanced over his shoulder and smiled.
“But hey, we get our hands on that Book and we’ve got all kinds of demon-icillin.”
“What?” Balz asked.
“Word has it that Book can be used for lots of fun things. Including getting rid of pesky trespassers—and I ain’t talking about your uncle Norman over the Christmas holiday.”
As the Brother ducked out of the locker room, Balz mumbled, “I don’t have an uncle Norman.”
He sure as shit had a trespasser, however, and he had a feeling she was working through him in ways he wasn’t aware of.
This realization would have flat-out terrified him.
If he hadn’t already been shitting bricks.
• • •
Back at the cottage, Sahvage entered through the second-story bedroom window, and as he came to the head of the stairs, he called down for Tallah.
He did the same on the first floor.
At the cellar door, he leaned in. Then went down. The old female’s room was open, and the light from the hall shone inside. There was a lot of pink silk with flowers, and furniture that he had seen in what the humans called France, back when he’d been traveling the Old Country. Over on a chaise lounge, Tallah was fast asleep. She had dressed formally once again, her gown a faded teal, her silver fall of hair loose and tangling in the seed pearls that had been stitched on the bodice.
Beside her was a tray with a cup of tea, some half-eaten toast, and a pot of jam.
The life span of vampires was very different from that of humans, and not just from a longevity point of view. Unlike that other species, vampires looked pretty damn good for their entire lives, up until their last decade or so. At that point, the aging process slammed into the body and the mind, and the degeneration of everything occurred on a fast-rate escalation that led right into the grave.
Tallah was not far from a headstone—
“Sahvage?” the female mumbled as she lifted her head. “Is that you?”
“I’m sorry I woke you. I was just checking on you.”
“Oh, that is so kind. Where’s Mae?”
“She’s on her way back.” He took a deep breath. “You haven’t eaten much.”
“I was not very hungry. That stew last night was so filling.”
“You just rest. You look tired.”
“I am.”
As he went to turn away, Tallah said, “She’s lucky to have you.”
With a noncommittal sound, he headed back upstairs and took a seat at the kitchen table. Checking his phone, he frowned at the time and texted Mae. And then he waited for a response. Which would be coming at any second. He was quite sure. She’d probably taken her car.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Yeah, that was it. Mae was driving back with her car and it would take her—he glanced at the time on his home screen again—probably another ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.
As the quiet in the cottage seeped into him, he found the past coming back one last time. Good thing. He’d lost his patience with his memories . . . then again, that had been true at the very moment they had been made.
• • •
Tap. Tap. Tap . . .
The plaintive sound led him unto the broad staircase that ascended to the highest level of the castle. As he followed, a dog upon a scent, he was aware that the volume did not change. Though he instinctively knew he was closing in on the destination, the tapping did not become louder. It was as if the sound was in the very walls of stone, in the floor, in the ceiling.
Or perhaps no.
It might well be inside of him.
His journey ended in front of a stout door, the heavy planks reinforced with iron bars. And on either side, silk flags with golden trim were mounted upon proud poles.
He pictured Zxysis, impaled in the rectum—
Tap. Tap. Tap . . . tap.
As if its purpose had been served, the sound evaporated. And the door opened with a creaking, though he neither willed it so nor placed his hand upon its latch.
The master’s bedchamber was revealed, a blast of fresh air rushing forth as if it were anxious to depart the luxurious confines. Then again, all was not well.
In the flickering light of agitated candle flames, a scene of violence had even Sahvage closing his eyes.
Rahvyn’s simple underdress, the one that she had worn many times before, was torn to shreds and stained with blood, parts of it here . . . there . . . on the bedding platform. And beneath a canopy marked with the silks of the bloodline, the smell of blood and sex was at its strongest, even with the open window.
There she had been taken in violence.
“Dearest Virgin Scribe.”
But that was not all. There . . . in the corner . . . there was a bundle of leather, pale, unfinished leather . . .
Zxysis’s skin.
Sahvage drew his dagger palm down his face. Though he had never been a spiritual male, one caught up in prayers or the promised consolation of the Fade, he could not help but utter the mahmen of the race’s name o’er and o’er again—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Wheeling around, he frowned. The sound was coming from a trestle table by the hearth, and as he approached, he saw that a book lay open beside a black candle, an earthen dish, a dagger, and some herbs. As he breathed in, he caught a scent that was familiar.
His robing.
Lifting the front of the black fall that covered him, he sniffed. Yes, that was what had been pressed onto him—and within the bouquet . . . Rahvyn’s blood.
He looked at the ancient tome. There were lines of ink upon its parchment, the rusty brown color suggesting that blood had been in the quill that had stroked o’er the pages. The letters and symbols, however . . . were unlike any he had e’er seen before. However, he had a guess as to the content.
A spell, for surely these ingredients were inexplicable for any other purpose.
And Rahvyn’s vein had been opened.
He thought of the warnings carved on the outside of his coffin. It was not a difficult conclusion that some kind of containing spell had been wrought upon him, although obviously Zxysis hadnae been successful in the attempt.
Turning the cover over to close, Sahvage grimaced. He did not care for the feel of handling any part of the book. And as for what it was bound in? The ugly leather was riddled with cracks and fissures, as if it were aged beyond centuries. There was also a smell, like curdled milk or decaying flesh.
He dropped his hold and rubbed his palm upon his hip. Even after a vigorous scrub, he felt as though something was retained on his fingers, his palm—
The cover flipped back open of its own volition, the pages ruffling in a rush, sure as if ghosted hands were skimming through them. Sahvage backed away, but stopped as the book came to a rest in a different place than had been exposed previously.
